Gallery of Broken Hearts
by brickroad16
Summary: Post Season 2. Everything seems to be going smoothly for Team Bartowski until The Ring finds and targets them. So what happens when Sarah wakes up in a mental institution and Chuck finds himself in Fulcrum's clutches?
1. Be OK

Disclaimer: We go through this every time, I know, but I don't own "Chuck." I do, however, wish I owned Chris Fedak's super fantastic stormtrooper helmet. :P

A/N: Okay, people, I've noticed quite a bit of negativity going around the community as of late. It's been rather distressing, and this story is kind of my response to that. Let me warn you now that it is _angsty_. However, this is not the in-your-face kind of angst that is really just an author venting his or her frustration over the direction they believe the show is going to take. Rather, this is brickroad angst – whispery and 100 percent Charah.

Rather, what lies at the heart of this story is also what lies at the heart of the show - the Chuck/Sarah relationship that most of us are so crazy about (and which also occasionally drives us crazy). That's something that I have complete faith in. So please, stop stressing. Just sit back and rest assured that there will be a happy ending. :) (Or, you know, feel free to ignore this. :P)

All the lyrics and chapter titles are from Ingrid Michaelson songs. (If you don't know who she is, stop reading this and go look her up right. now.)

Expect a chapter once a week. :)

Also, ginormous thank-yous to **BillatWork**, **GoldenGirl**, and **yokaputo **for beta-ing! They're awesome!

* * *

_Open me up and you will see  
I'm a gallery of broken hearts  
I'm beyond repair, let me be__  
And give me back my broken parts  
- "Be OK," Ingrid Michaelson_

_

* * *

_

_An enchanted laugh escapes Sarah's throat as Chuck leads her by the hand._

"_Where are we going?" she asks. _

_They're at the beach, _their_ beach, but it's past midnight already, the stars twinkling at them through the darkness, and she can't fathom why he's brought her here._

"_You'll see," is all he says, a smile in his voice._

_She trusts him, and so, keeping quiet, she follows where he leads. The sand is cool beneath her feet, the grains coarse between her toes. When they reach the edge of the shore, Chuck stops, unfolds a blanket, and lies down. He grins up at her, his eyes shining in the moonlight, and she lies down beside him, feeling a rush as his hand brushes against hers._

_His body is tense with anticipation as they stare up at the stars, but still she has no idea what they're watching for. Sensing her impatience, he whispers in her ear, "Just wait."_

_And that's when she sees it – a brilliant streak of light flash across the sky. She gasps quietly._

_His soft chuckle drifts through the air. "I told you."_

_Chuck settles back, perfectly content to watch the meteor shower, but Sarah suddenly can't keep still. She's itching to say a million things, everything she's had on her mind since they've been together. She curls on her side to face him, mesmerized simply by the sight of him, by the moonlight illuminating his skin, by the dazzling smile on his face._

_She reaches out to rest her fingers on his chin and brush her thumb against his lips._

_Chuck turns his head, laughing softly. "You're not watching," he accuses gently even as he instinctively slides closer to her._

_Sarah winds her arm around him, feeling his chest rise and fall as he breathes. With him beside her, and the stars above her, the night seems absolutely perfect. She could stay here forever, just lying next to him. She wants to stay here forever._

"_Chuck," she begins softly, her voice almost inaudible over the crashing of the waves._

"_Yeah?"_

"_I . . ." Sarah says, faltering, because she's not used to this, not used to sharing her feelings no matter how strong they are, no matter how much they anchor her. _

_And even though they've been together – actually together – for a few months now, she still can't seem to find the words. Her mouth goes dry, her tongue feels like sandpaper, the words stick in her throat. She feels like a schoolgirl again, caught up in the rush of a first love. She's twenty-nine years old, and even after all she's been through, she lacks experience in the aspects of love. She's been with a few guys before, but Chuck . . . Chuck is like oxygen to her, that first burst of air after nearly drowning._

_So why does she find it so difficult to tell him that?_

_Chuck smiles and threads his fingers through hers, his silent strength coursing through the connection and into her veins._

_She takes a deep, shaky breath. "I never want this to end, this moment."_

_Chuck kisses her softly and says, "Then we won't let it."_

_She snuggles against him as meteors streak through the sky above, instantly understanding what he means. She'll keep this moment with her forever, bottle it up and save it for when a time she needs it most. _

_

* * *

_The scene dissolves as Sarah picks her head up to look at her surroundings. Four white walls stare back at her, the same walls she's seen for the past five weeks. There are the same two cots against the back wall, their white sheets fading to grey with each passing week. There's the same tiny window in the wall opposite the hallway. The room is small, uninviting, but it's not like she has much left to live for anyway.

Her only worthwhile companions are her memories, both the good and the bad. In this godforsaken place, she's had five whole weeks to dwell on all her mistakes. Five weeks to wish she'd told him what she wanted so much to tell him that night. Five weeks without his soft touch, without his dazzling smile, without his delightful laugh.

She's lost, floating in a sea of memories, awash in an ocean of once-held dreams, and she can't even separate what's real from what's false anymore.

The door opens with a creak, revealing her roommate, a woman in her early thirties with dark eyes and a sober disposition. Lucy's been here for longer than she has, and Sarah still hasn't had the inclination to ask her why she's here in the first place. Quiet in general, Sarah rarely opens her mouth here. She doesn't want to talk to anyone, doesn't want to try to explain, especially when they refuse to listen. Even so, as little as they communicate, she and Lucy make sure to say 'Good morning' and 'Good night' to each other. It's a way to mark the passing of days, a way to acknowledge that time is indeed pressing forward even if the world around them seems to have stopped.

Lucy walks in, sits down on her cot, and picks up a book that's poking out from beneath the bed. A brunette nurse pops her head in the open doorway, and Sarah looks up at the sound of her name.

"Are you ready for your session, Sarah?"

Sarah purses her lips. No, she's not ready. She doesn't want to move from this corner. She doesn't want to be forced to talk. She just wants to be left alone.

But this isn't how her life works now. She doesn't get time to think, time for solitude, when she wants it. She follows their schedule, jumps through their hoops, all while trying to maintain a semblance of her dignity.

Sighing, she stands and allows the nurse to lead her through the residential corridors and down to the psychiatric ward. The door to Dr. Gray's office is open in invitation, but she stops just short of entering.

The nurse, whom Sarah remembers is named Beatrice and has a penchant for romance novels, takes her hesitation for nervousness and says, "You can go on in. Dr. Julius is expecting you."

She knows. She also knows what else he expects. She's been fighting him for thirty-five days now, growing more taciturn with each question he asks. He's relentless, more interested in her facial expressions and body language than her actual (non-)answers. Even with all her training, she finds it hard to school her face into stoicism when the one-sided conversation inevitably takes a more personal turn.

Sarah nods, offers Beatrice a small, grateful smile, and walks into the office. It's bright, much like the rest of the institution, but she finds it anything but comforting. The décor is modern, all straight lines and angles, and every time she walks in, she finds herself missing the messy charm of _his_ bedroom – the posters, the video games, the Les Paul sitting in the corner.

She takes a seat in the middle of the couch, not too close and not too far from Dr. Gray, who's sitting in an oversized leather armchair, one ankle crossed over his other leg, his tie tight around his collar. He's young, in his mid-thirties, with short brown hair, thin metal-framed glasses, and a neatly-trimmed beard. He holds a notepad in his lap, clicks his pen in the air.

"How are you today, Sarah?" he asks in a congenial voice.

It's one of the few questions she can answer without being horribly scrutinized, one she can answer honestly.

"Fine," she tells him, and, out of habit, she asks, "Yourself?"

"Excellent. Thank you for asking," he responds, smiling. "Is there anything you'd like to discuss today?"

Sarah looks at her sneakers, flexes her toes. Keeping the petulance out of her voice, she answers evenly, "Not particularly."

"Okay, then," he nods. "In that case, let's move on to a new topic, shall we? We haven't strayed into your personal life very much yet. How about we talk about love? Have you ever been in love, Sarah?"

This is the part where she clams up and folds inside herself, but the subject matter is so unexpected that it causes a jolt to her system. She remembers soft curls against her fingertips, skin on skin, the sound of his laughter the first thing in the morning, a sky full of meteors.

"Sometimes," Dr. Gray continues, oblivious to her obliviousness, "a traumatic relationship experience can lead to, essentially, a loss of identity. Has anything like that ever happened to you? Have you ever met someone you feel so deeply about that reality seems to lose its hold on you?"

Sarah swallows and takes a deep breath in an effort to slow her rapid breathing.

_Yes._

She wants to cry out for him, to feel him in her arms, but she's not even sure if he's still alive. She's not even sure if _she_'s still living. She's existing, a mere specter. But just the thought of him keeps her going, and there's no way she's going to give that up so easily. He's been buried in her heart, her own private source of strength, an endless fountain of pure, blissful memories.

She stays silent, her lips tight, and looks up at Dr. Gray. Sighing, he leans back in his chair.

"You don't want to talk about that, do you?" he asks rhetorically.

She sees the wheels in his mind turning, sees him struggling to comprehend whether her silence is an affirmation or mere meaningless silence.

"Okay," he says resignedly, "let's try your favorite topic. Tell me about your job."

Glancing out the window at the leafy trees in the courtyard, she's tempted to, once again, say nothing. But this push and pull is their favorite time of the sessions.

Her lips twist into a coy smile as she calmly announces, "I'm a spy."

Dr. Gray nods at the expected answer. "And what kind of work did you do?" Sarah looks him in the eye until he boils under the pressure and breaks the gaze. He clears his throat and says, "Right. No details. Of course." Frowning, he leans forward and sets his notepad down onto the coffee table. "Can you tell me, then, about your partners?"

The smile fades from Sarah's face.

_Her partners_ . . .

And just like that, she's gone again, lost in a frightening jumble of emotions and regrets. She still can't recall much of that day, just vague images and impressions.

Blood, gunshots, an explosion.

Screams.

And through it all, her own voice.

"_Take care of him, Casey. Take care of yourself."_


	2. Keep Breathing

A/N: Once again, big thank-yous to **BillatWork**, **GoldenGirl**, and **Yokaputo **for beta-ing!

The lyrics are from Ingrid Michaelson's "Keep Breathing."

Look at that! Two days later, and I remember what I was supposed to tell you. I'm supposed to promote the **Who Are You? Challenge**, which I am participating in. It starts this Thursday, October 8th. There are twenty authors so far, and the goal is to guess who writes which chapter! You can find out more info here:

www(dot)fanfiction(dot)net/u/2098131/WHO_ARE_YOU_challenge

_

* * *

The storm is coming but I don't mind  
People are dying, I close my blinds__  
All that I know is I'm breathing now . . .__  
All that I know is I'm breathing__  
All I can do is keep breathing  
- "Keep Breathing," Ingrid Michaelson_

_

* * *

He's at the same place he was a year and a half ago, but this time, she's with him.  
Except for his jacket, he's still in his suit from the wedding, the first few buttons of his shirt open in the warm dawn air. Sarah, still in her bridesmaid dress, slips her hand into his, a small but staggering gesture of solidarity._

_He feels the pressure of her fingers against his and looks down at her to see a warm, broad smile on her face. She leans toward him and presses a soft kiss to his lips._

_He wants to lose himself in her, to coax her back to his room where they can wrap themselves in the sheets and forget about the world, forget about the secrets in his head, forget about what everyone else demands of them. He'd like to tell her that he had a plan when he made the decision, but he didn't really. _

_All he could think about was her._

"_How are we going to do this, Sarah?" he_ _asks so quietly that the sound of the waves almost drowns out his voice_

_She smiles softly, leans into him. "The same way we always have, Chuck. _Together_."_

_Even when he's in his worst moods, she's always successful in drawing a smile from him, and this time is no different. Looking into her pale blue eyes right now, he has no doubt that they'll be okay._

* * *

Chuck wakes with a start, sweat dripping down his forehead. He's been plagued by dreams, clouded and disturbing, for six weeks now, and he wakes up in the middle of the night with her face in his mind, with her name on his lips. But after so many nights of terror, he's learned to stifle his cries for her.

With a deep breath, he forces himself back to reality. His eyes adjust and he's faced with the grim white walls of his current living space. It's plain, undecorated, a house but not a home by any stretch of the imagination. It's useful, not comfortable. And for the past six weeks, he's stared at these blank walls, hoping to find some kind of reason behind all this suffering, some kind of meaning in it all.

Slowly, cautiously, he wipes the sweat from his forehead and slides out from beneath the covers. The floor creaks as he walks to the bathroom, but his bedmate doesn't stir. He's not entirely surprised, after all the sleeping pills Jill's been taking lately. She claims they're for insomnia, but he knows her better than she thinks. He's seen the dead look in her eyes, seen the dread when she receives new orders.

He shuts the door before turning on the light, and, standing in front of the sink, he leans heavily on the counter. He's a broken man, though his image doesn't reflect it. His hair is newly-shorn, his curls more like waves now. The light stubble on his chin goes with his new hairstyle, lends him a rugged aspect. But his eyes . . . his eyes are hollow. They've lost their brilliance, their light.

Disgusted, Chuck turns on the cold water and splashes his face.

This isn't how it's supposed to be. He's supposed to be building a life, not fighting for his sanity as the world goes mad around him. Grabbing a towel and drying his face, he collapses onto the rim of the bathtub. It seems like every time his life is finally going right, it suddenly takes a U-turn and starts to go very, very wrong. Sometimes he feels like he can handle it, like when the blonde enigma who walked into his life turned out to be his blonde protector. But what's he supposed to do when she's no longer by his side? When she's been torn away from him and he has nowhere to turn?

Sighing, he lets his head fall into his hands wearily. He's tired, his eyes feeling the aching need for sleep, but he can't go back into that bedroom. He's been in impossible situations before, but she's _always_ been there, either to bail him out or to stand by his side when he found a solution.

He picks his head up, suddenly strengthened. She's believed in him since the first. She's always told him that he could do anything.

Isn't it time he proved himself worthy of that confidence?

* * *

Casey grimaces, his clippers poised in the air as he prepares to trim a branch of his bonsai tree. Over two decades he's been serving his country, and these trees – these damn, stupid trees – are the only constant he's been able to hang on to. Not a name, not a lover, not even a favorite flavor of ice cream. But these, these have stood by him through it all. His first tree had been given to him by his father, a gift for graduating from West Point at the top of his class. Ever since then, he's had at least one through every mission.

Now, sitting in an NSA safe house with nothing to do but twiddle his thumbs and go crazy with worry, the only thing he can do is care for the bonsai tree on the kitchen table. It's the only thing that takes his mind off of what happened seven weeks ago, the night he let everything slip through his fingers, the night he failed the two people who mean the most to him.

Ellie walks into the kitchen, a faint beam of light in an otherwise dim world. Out of the three of them, she's the one who's been taking this the best. Even during the initial shockwaves, she never missed a step. She's been calm and understanding to the last, following Casey's instructions to the letter. Still, she's close to the breaking point.

They all are.

Opening the refrigerator, she smiles and says, "You can't prune that thing twenty-four hours a day, you know."

Casey lets out a low grunt, barely lifting his eyes to hers.

"Devon and I were getting hungry," she continues. "So I thought I'd make some dinner. Is that all right?"

"You don't have to ask me," he replies quietly.

She sighs softly. "Well, is there anything in particular you'd like to have for dinner?"

He shakes his head. "Thanks, though," he says gruffly.

Ellie goes about preparing dinner, taking chicken breasts out of the freezer and putting rice on the stove to boil. After a few minutes, she starts to bang things on the countertop and chop the vegetables with a violent fervor.

Watching her, Casey lifts an eyebrow but stays silent. If she wants to talk, she'll talk.

A minute later, her back still to him, she lets out a frustrated sigh and slams the bottle of cooking oil down. "It's been two months," she accuses. "Two months, Casey! And what have you done to find him?"

Casey frowns. "I thought you understood."

She whips around to fix him with a glare. "Understood what? That my baby brother and his girlfriend are out there, alone and in danger? And that no one has done anything to help them?"

"I thought you understood that this isn't easy for anyone." Sighing, he pinches the bridge of his nose. "Ellie," he says calmly, "the truth is he's nowhere to be found."

Ellie falls back against the counter, her expression softening from anger to dismay. "What do you mean?"

A pang shoots through Casey's once-steel heart. He hates seeing the sadness etch its lines into her face. "I mean it's like he never existed," he admits. "There's no record of him anywhere. No birth certificate, no documentation of his expulsion or late diploma from Stanford. Nothing." Dropping his eyes to the floor, he adds, "He's a ghost."

"How?" she asks in a whisper, her voice cracking. "How did this happen?"

Casey shakes his head. "I don't know. But I can promise you, Ellie, we're using all our resources. We're going to find him."

She swallows thickly, nods her head. "And what about you, huh? Why not you? If you're supposedly his friend, his handler, then why aren't you out there looking for him, keeping him safe? Isn't that your job?"

"I am doing my job," he insists gently, sitting up a little straighter. "My job is to keep you and your husband from doing anything stupid, like getting yourselves killed. When Chuck and Sarah get back, they at least deserve to have a family to come back to." Casey narrows his brow, sets his jaw. "After everything they've done for this country, it's the least I can do."

Smiling sadly, Ellie lays a hand on his shoulder. He tenses.

"Thank you, Casey," she says, "for being a friend."

"If it were me," Casey says, "they'd do the same."

* * *

Chuck tells himself that they deserve it. He tucks the guilt away into a hidden corner of his heart and tells himself that the sunrise will wash it all away. Luckily, with Jill, all he had to do was slip some of her own sleeping pills into her drink that night, wait for her to fall asleep, and tie her up. She hadn't suspected a thing.

But the guards outside their apartment building, they had been a different story. His bones ache from the fights, and there's blood (not his own) spattered across his shirt. He slips into a Fusion he finds parked on the street, marveling at how quick his escape at been. If he had known it would have been this easy, he would have attempted it much sooner.

He doesn't know where he's going, has no idea where his friends or family are anymore. All he knows is that he needs to get away from here. He drives west, away from the rising sun, which is just as well, because he associates it with new life, associates it with a morning he spent sitting on the beach next to a golden-haired savior.

He drives for hours upon hours, until his knuckles throb from holding the wheel too tightly and his eyes burn from lack of sleep. For the first time in two months, his heart is pumping blood through his veins, his senses are alert with anticipation.

He feels almost alive.

He may not know where he's going, but he has a goal in mind. The only thing that matters right now is getting back to her, and he'll drive through the fires of hell itself to do that.


	3. Soldier

A/N: Again, thanks to **BillatWork**, **GoldenGirl**, and **Yokaputo **for beta-ing. :)

The lyrics are from Ingrid Michaelson's "Soldier." I've already managed to convert two people into IM fans! Maybe I'll get a few more with this chapter, lol.

Don't forget to check out the Who Are You? Challenge, which should be up very, very soon!

Erm . . . I always feel like I'm missing something . . .

_

* * *

I don't believe in anything but myself  
I don't believe in anything but myself  
But then you opened up a door  
You opened up a door  
Now I start to believe in something else . . .  
And so it goes, this soldier knows  
The battle with the heart isn't easily won  
- "Soldier," Ingrid Michaelson_

_

* * *

Parched from the afternoon's exercise, Chuck raises the water bottle to his lips and gulps down the cool, refreshing liquid. He and Sarah have been sparring at the Castle's new gymnasium every day for a month now, and he finally feels like he's making progress. But his craving for good old H__2__O has gone through the roof. He's definitely not used to exercising this much._

"_Slow down, tiger," Sarah teases with a laugh. "You're going to drown yourself."_

_Swallowing, he sets the water bottle down with a smile and begins changing out of his work-out clothes. He's still breathing heavily from the training, his chest heaving as he sheds his sweaty t-shirt for a clean one._

_On the other side of the room, Sarah leans against the small bank of lockers, her duffel bang slung from her shoulder. She's already changed her clothes, but what he notices is her bottom lip, swollen and purple._

_Damn. He'd been hoping against reason that it wouldn't swell so much._

_He grimaces. "I'm sorry."_

"_Don't be," she waves him off. After stealing his water bottle and taking a swig, she tells him, "You're getting better. A lot better."_

_Grinning, he changes out of his gym shorts and into jeans. "I have a good teacher," he says._

_She laughs softly as he sits down to put on his sneakers. _

"_You're a good person, Chuck," she tells him in a quiet voice. "Don't let this life change you."_

_He looks up from lacing his Converses, perplexed by her sudden shift in mood. His first instinct is to tell her how preposterous that would be, but somehow, the look on her face keeps him from making light of the question._

"_No," he replies seriously, "I won't."_

_Sarah nods, but doesn't elaborate on what she's feeling. Not really expecting her to, he stands, shoulders his bag, and walks over to her. Frowning, he brushes his thumb against her lips. "We should get some ice for that."_

"_I'll grab some on the way out." She takes his hand and pulls him toward the door. "Come on, mister," she laughs, "I'm starving."_

_And that moment of misgiving, that hint of vulnerability, is gone in a flash. She leads him out of the base and into the parking lot, a smile lighting her face, and just her hand in his is enough to send him into the clouds. _

* * *

It's early November when he finds them.

After two years of working with the NSA, he knows how they operate. Even with that knowledge, it still takes him three days to hack into their e-mail and communications database and searches for key phrases. It takes him another two to get a hit, a string of messages that can only be from Casey, complete with an IP and real-world address, and he's not sure whether he can trust such an easily-gained triumph, not sure if the NSA is getting sloppy or if the Intersect is just doing all the heavy lifting.

He's found that it's easy to keep a low profile when you don't technically exist. People notice you less when you stop caring. He sits on a bench at a bus stop, wondering what she'd think of him right now. In all their time together, she had been most adamant about doing all the dirty work, about maintaining his innocence. He had even promised her that he wouldn't let this life change him. But at the time, he hadn't counted on her being captured. He hadn't counted on being taken by Jill and by Fulcrum and needing to escape from them. All he had counted on was being by her side.

He aches for her. But he's also scared to death of seeing her. What if she notices the change in his eyes? What if it's written right on his face?

He sighs. Here he sits, an Edith Wharton book open on his knee. He had found a copy of _The House of Mirth_ at a used book store in New Mexico, and he's become a fan of her rather bleak worldview. Now, though, he can't concentrate on reading. Not when there's a house across the street and down a few lots that captures his attention.

It's plain, a two-story white brick house with maroon shutters and a few measly window planters. But one flash had told him all the safety features it was equipped with, something that immediately set his heart at ease.

In the few hours he's been observing the house, the door hasn't budged. No one in, no one out. No contact with the outside world save for the video monitors undoubtedly set up inside.

No visitors until now.

It's suicide to approach the front door without announcing himself somehow, but it's him, and Casey should've known that five hours ago. It takes him but a minute to cross the street, and he jaunts up the front porch steps like he's an old friend coming to visit, which he realizes isn't that far off from the truth. On the landing, he takes a deep breath and hesitates before knocking, his hand poised in mid-air before the door.

He doesn't get a chance to knock before the door opens to reveal Casey's shadowed face.

"How do I know it's really you?" he growls.

Chuck suppresses a smile. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed his friend's gruff manner.

"You keep a photo of Ronald Reagan in your living room," he says. "You were the best Beastmaster mover at the Buy More. Your dream car is a shiny black Crown Victoria. You lost your heart in a flower market in Rome. And you have only four toes on your left foot."

Casey narrows his eyebrows, clearly waiting for more.

Chuck takes a breath. "I can recite _Wrath of Khan_ word-for-word, and I'm nearly fluent in Klingon. My older sister is a doctor who works at Westside Hospital and is married to another awesome doctor. I wiped the floor with you the one and only time I could get you to play _Call of Duty_." He hesitates briefly before adding, "And I'm in love with a woman whose name I don't even know."

The proof seems to satisfy the NSA agent, who opens the door, disengages his gun, and sets it on the hallway table.

Casey waves him in. "Nice to see you alive, Bartowski," he says, a tight smile crossing his lips.

Chuck pulls his friend into a brief hug. "Nice to see you too, Case." He spots his sister, hovering uncertainly in the doorway at the opposite end of the hall. "And thanks for taking care of them."

Grinning broadly, he sweeps Ellie into a warm embrace.

"I'm so glad you're safe," she tells him softly, her voice choked with held-back tears.

He holds her at arm's length to get a good look at her. "Me, too, sis. Me, too."

"What's all the commotion?" Devon asks as he walks into the entranceway. "Whoa, Chuckster!"

Chuck laughs at he hugs his brother-in-law. "It's awesome to see you, too, Devon." Turning to look at Ellie, he says, "I'm so sorry for all of this. I never meant for it to turn out like this."

Ellie smiles sadly and puts a hand on his arm. "I know, sweetie. I know."

"Has Casey at least been taking care of you?" he asks, sneaking a glance at the big guy standing next to him.

"We've basically been on house arrest," she replies, "but we can't really complain, not when you're here and you're _safe_."

Devon shrugs. "And the food's been kind of awesome," he offers.

"Speaking of food, you must be starving," Ellie exclaims, already shuffling him off toward the kitchen. She scoffs. "I can't believe you've survived for two and a half months on your own out in that . . . crazy world. But I guess you had Sarah, and after everything Casey's told us, I wouldn't trust anyone else to protect you."

She stops abruptly in her rambling and walking to stare at him, and her husband picks up on her realization.

"Bro," Devon intones, his eyebrows drawn in confusion, "where's Sarah?"

Chuck swallows thickly, exchanges a fraught glance with Casey.

"Chuck, what's going on?" Ellie asks.

Her expression is laced with concern, and Chuck can't bear to break her heart. "Ellie . . ." he sighs. "I wasn't with Sarah."

Ellie stares at him, stunned. "I don't understand. If you weren't together . . ."

He glances at his feet, and his voice is quiet when he says, "I haven't seen her since that night. I've only been out for two weeks, but I've been looking for her and the truth is I have no idea where she is."

The house falls silent, and Chuck can feel his heart pounding in his chest. He's come so far, too far to give up now.

Casey clears his throat, thumps him on the shoulder. "You've survived this long, haven't you?" Chuck looks up. "She's out there, Bartowski," the older man assures him, "and we'll find her."

* * *

He's living through hell, forced to endure all the waiting and the sitting around while Casey's government friends piece the clues together. The NSA agent has called in all the favors, pulled out all the stops, but Chuck is confined to the safe house, useless once again.

Doing nothing while she's out there alone is worse than living with Jill under Fulcrum's thumb.

Since Ellie's too scared to want to know and Devon's too perceptive to ask, Casey's the only one he tells about where he's been. Even so, the NSA agent can't give him any task, can't give him any purpose. The best he can do is call his friends in Washington and hope for the best.

So Chuck tortures himself by keeping track of the days, feeling like he gets further from her with each passing hour. On the morning of day eleven, Casey walks into the living room, a manila envelope in his hand and an anxious smile on his face.

"What?" Chuck asks immediately, jumping up from the couch. "What is it? What've you found?"

Motioning for him to sit down and calm down, Casey takes a seat in an armchair and opens the file. "We got a hit." His eyes flicker up to Chuck's, and he clarifies, "On a Sarah Bartowski."

"So what are we waiting for? Let's go get her," Chuck replies emphatically.

"It's not that simple, Chuck," Casey says. Chuck glares, daring him to explain, and the older man continues, "She's a patient in a mental institution."

Chuck's knees give way, and he sinks back onto the couch. He shakes his head, bewildered. "What? How?"

Casey shrugs. "I don't know. But we do think it's run by The Ring."

"So what does that mean?"

"It means we need to go in with a plan."

* * *

Sarah stares up at the sky, finds herself wondering how there's a blue so absolutely _blue_. She pulls her coat a little tighter around herself as an autumn breeze blows through, but she doesn't mind it. As much as she loved LA, she's enchanted by the New England fall – the crisp, chill air; the wide swath of bold colors on the trees.

The patients are allowed to go outside into the courtyard for an hour each day, and Sarah always takes advantage of the offer. She lies on her back on the fallen leaves, feeling the cool earth and breathing in deep lungfuls of fresh air, all the while trying to orient herself in reality.

The longer she's here, the more detached she becomes. Every day she's bombarded with accusations, assailed with false memories, and her only private refuge is what she can remember. So she lets her mind drift and fill up with images of him in the hopes of staying sane.

"You're going to catch your death, lying on the ground like that."

Sarah lifts her head to find Beatrice looking down at her. Her petite frame is wrapped in a black pea coat, the blue of her scrubs poking out from underneath, and there's a novel hiding in the crook of her arm.

When Sarah doesn't reply, the nurse gestures at their surroundings. "The least you could do is sit on a bench."

Wordlessly, Sarah stands, brushes off her jeans and jacket, and walks over to the nearest bench. It's under a spruce tree, the branches shading most of the seat, the far end dappled in sunlight. Unexpectedly, Beatrice follows her.

They must look a pair, Sarah thinks, sitting on the bench together, one in scrubs, one in civilian clothes. Patients and nurses don't normally have much interaction, and Sarah doesn't have any voluntary interaction with anyone.

The young nurse doesn't try to strike up a conversation, instead sits back and opens her book. They sit in silence for a few moments, the only noises the rustling of the leaves and the turning of pages.

Finally, Sarah asks, "What are you reading?" Her throat is dry from lack of use, and the words come out raspy.

Beatrice glances up, her eyebrows raised in pleasant surprise. "Oh," she says, showing her the book cover, "just a romance novel."

Sarah's gaze flickers to the book cover. "_Flirting with Danger_," she notes. "What's it about?"

A blush rises to Beatrice's cheeks, and she smiles sheepishly. "It's about this thief named Samantha Jellicoe, and she's in the middle of robbing this rich guy, Richard Addison, when a bomb goes off. She ends up saving him, and . . . well, that's all the further I've gotten." She chuckles quietly. "It's very exciting."

Sarah mechanically nods her agreement. "You read romances a lot?" It's an unnecessary question, one meant to make conversation, because Sarah's observed Beatrice in the hallways, always carrying a harlequin romance tucked under her arm.

"Uh, yeah. Do you read them?"

"No."

Beatrice cocks her head. "You don't believe in love?"

"You sound like Dr. Gray," Sarah chuckles. "And no, I didn't believe, not for a long time." She pauses, wondering how much to say. But she's spent almost three months without breathing a word about what she's really feeling to anyone. Sometimes, when she gets depressed, she lies awake late at night, and a cold fear shoots through her heart that everything they've been telling her is true. Then she wakes up in the morning, feels the warm morning sun on her face, and curses her nighttime infidelity.

Beatrice is silent for a moment before quietly prodding, "'Didn't'?"

Sarah sighs, her breath fogging in front of her, and she murmurs, "Not until I met Chuck."

"Chuck?" Sarah nods, and Beatrice prompts, "How did you meet?"

"At work. He fixed my phone."

The nurse smiles and lets out a quiet squeal of delight. "That's so adorable." Her voice is timid as she asks, "Where is he now?"

Sarah breathes in deeply, "I don't know."

"He doesn't know you're here?"

"No."

Beatrice, not knowing what to say, drops her eyes. The head nurse appears in the doorway and calls that it's time to go in.

"No," Sarah repeats as she stands and brushes off her jeans. "But I'll see him soon."

Beatrice moves to her side as they walk back inside. "What's he like?"

Sarah smiles sadly. "Amazing," she says, and, somehow feeling like she can open up to this young woman, she adds, "I never expected to fall in love, especially with a guy like him, but he made me realize that I didn't even know what love was." She swallows the emotion rising to the surface, and her voice is barely audible above the breeze as she whispers, "He saved me."

Beatrice offers her a shy smile. "I believe you'll see him again."

"Me, too."

Sarah nods, folding her arms against the autumn chill. She has to believe it. It's the only thing keeping her from going mad.


	4. Mountain and the Sea

Song: "Mountain and the Sea," by Ingrid Michaelson

A/N: I'm posting this a bit early, because (a) I'm bored, and (b) I have a 9-midnight shift tonight, am possibly going home afterward, and am _pumpkin carving_ tomorrow! (Woo! :P Any ideas for my jack-o-lantern? Yoda? Dr. Horrible? Hmm . . .) And (c) what else do people do while they're watching BBC adaptations of Jane Austen books? :P

This is the defining chapter of the story, so I hope it lives up to expectations. :)

Edit: Gah, I always forget to say stuff! Lol, I just wanted to say thanks for all the reviews so far! I'm really touched by the amount of thought everyone's put into this story, and I hope it's fulfilling expectations. :)

Ack. I'm so scatter-brained today. As usual, heaps of thanks go to: **BillatWork**, **GoldenGirl**, and **Yokaputo **for beta-ing. They're pretty fantastic.

_

* * *

_

_You call me a mountain  
And I call you the sea  
I'll stand tall and certain, and watch you swallow me  
You can move me, if you want to  
You can move a mountain, you can move a mountain  
You can move me, if you want to  
You can move everything, you can move everything  
- "Mountain and the Sea," Ingrid Michaelson_

* * *

_It's her own fault, really. She's the one who suggested they spend the afternoon at the park. And here she stands, her ice cream cone forgotten in her hand, the once-frozen treat now melting and running in sticky rivulets down her palm._

_She's transfixed, mesmerized by the sight in front of her. The playground is sheer chaos and energy, dozens of screaming children running in every direction, climbing on every surface. The sound of their laughter fills her ears, fills her heart. She's never been one to allow herself to succumb to idle daydreams, but being with Chuck has opened her up, given her a new perspective._

_As she stands here watching the pandemonium, she feels like the longing in her heart isn't so irrational._

_Feeling pressure on her hand, she looks up into Chuck's smiling face._

"_Hey, Golden Hair? You still with me?" he teases._

_She grins sheepishly at the nickname and allows him to lead her down the path._

_Later that night, her mind is elsewhere as she lies in bed attempting to read. Chuck is sprawled out beside her, perfectly content to watch old episodes of "The X-Files." She sneaks a glance at his lanky frame and lets out a heavy sigh._

_He looks over. "Everything okay?" he asks, one eyebrow raised._

"_Of course," she replies, waving off his concern. "Why do you ask?"_

_Flipping onto his side, he props his head up with a hand and drapes his other arm over her waist. "You've been quiet, more than usual I mean, all day. Is something bothering you?"_

"_No," she replies, running a hand through his hair, "but it's sweet that you'd ask."_

_Chuck frowns, looking at her suspiciously. "Okay."_

_Smiling, she reaches a hand up to caress his cheek. "Are you tired?" she asks._

"_Mmm-hmm."_

"_All right," she chuckles, reaching over to set her book on the bedside table and shut off the lamp._

_He groans sleepily and nestles against her. Laughing softly, she strokes his curls. She settles back under the covers, and Chuck immediately pulls up against her, his hand resting over hers. A small smile comes to her lips as she lets her fingers glide over his. _

"_Sarah?" he murmurs._

"_Hmm?"_

"_Do you want kids?"_

_Her breath catches in her lungs, and God, could she adore this man any more than she does at this moment?_

"_Yes," she whispers._

_He sighs, a contented, sleepy sound, and she swears he's smiling when he replies, "Me, too." _

* * *

Sarah sits on the couch in Dr. Gray's office, tapping her toes and twiddling her thumbs. She glances at the clock – four minutes past. It's not like him to be late. In fact, Dr. Gray is always here waiting for her when she arrives for their sessions. She frowns, nibbling on her lower lip, and wishes she had brought her book. Beatrice lent her _Flirting with Danger_, and she's reluctantly admitted that it's captured her attention.

She looks up sharply as the door opens, and her heart plummets into her stomach because it's not Dr. Gray who walks into the room.

It's _Charles Irving Bartowski_.

Not trusting her eyes, she nevertheless lets her gaze sweep over him. His hair is shorter, and dark glasses frame his face, but there's no mistaking that smile. He's wearing a suit with no jacket, the shirt-sleeves of his pinstriped oxford rolled up to his elbows. And she notices with a soft chuckle that he's still wearing his beloved Converses.

Her heart starts to race, because here he is. _Here he is_, with no explanation, not even a look of reassurance. She forces a deep breath of air into her lungs, forces herself to stay calm. It's been almost twelve weeks, eighty-two days to be exact, and she can't help feeling like this might be a hallucination, like twelve weeks of wishing for him might finally have made her crack. How many nights did she doubt everything they had, convince herself that it was all a delusion? His very presence in this room is like the universe laughing at her. His proximity is tormenting, and she feels the gulf between them acutely.

But then he smiles at her, and every ill thought races out of her mind. There's no chasm, no abyss to divide them. It's just them, and, despite her surroundings, the world feels like it's falling into place.

Chuck sits down in the leather armchair and smoothes his tie. Still smiling, he looks down at his notepad and says, "Well, hello, Sarah . . . Bartowski. I'm Dr. Reynolds, but you can call me Chuck if you'd like."

_Dr. Reynolds_. It's a message, she realizes, and all her previous misgivings fly out the window. Over two years ago, within the first few weeks of their cover relationship, Chuck had been appalled when she told him she'd never seen "Firefly" or _Serenity_. To appease him, she agreed to catch up on the series, and their fourth "date" was spent in his room, eating Thai take-out and watching the DVDs. Sarah had once confessed to having a teensy bit of a crush on Mal Reynolds, a confession for which Chuck had teased her mercilessly.

"Okay," she manages to choke out, her voice shaky and uneven.

"I know you were expecting Dr. Gray," he says, "but I've recently been hired, and we thought the change in face might do you some good. I hope you're okay with that."

Sarah nods. "Of course."

"I want you to know, Sarah, how important it is for you to make progress. You weren't connecting with Dr. Gray, and we want you to improve." His penetrating gaze meets hers, and she feels like he's trying to tell her something when he says, "And progress, after all, is the only way you can move on, the only way you can put this place behind you." He gestures to their surroundings.

"Right," she replies slowly, hoping his spectacular plan isn't to spring her out by giving her a clean bill of mental health and expecting the hospital to just let them go. She has a sudden flash of anger towards him. Doesn't he know what he's gotten himself into? Doesn't he know what kind of people have done this to them? But then she softens as she realizes what he must have gone through just to get this far.

"So, I don't want this to be formal at all," he tells her, setting his notepad on the coffee table. "Let's just chat. Is there anything you want to talk about, Sarah?"

True to form, she says nothing. How would it look if Dr. Reynolds gets her to open up in three minutes when Dr. Gray couldn't get her to say a significant word in three months? There are a thousand emotions boiling up in Sarah, none of them rational. How can they be when all she wants to do is jump onto his lap and kiss him senseless?

He nods his head, taking in her silence, and changes tactics. "You know what? Why don't we take a walk? Would you be okay with that? Do you have a coat?"

"It's in my room," she answers.

Chuck stands and swiftly crosses to the other side of the room. "Here," he says as he takes his coat off the rack. "You can wear mine."

It's a nice coat, long and black, expensive enough to make her realize how extensive his cover persona must be. She walks over to him and stands close so he can help her into the coat. It's too big, but it feels good on her, and it smells like him, like the shirts she used to steal just so she could inhale his familiar, heady scent.

He pulls a maroon sweater over his head before leading her outside, his hand on the small of her back. The touch sends a shockwave through her. She's ached for him, all this time, and the simple feeling of his palm pressed against her is nearly enough to unravel her. She's never found it so hard to keep herself together.

They walk through the corridors in silence, he opens the main door for her, and she pulls the warm coat around her a little tighter as she walks into the crisp November air. He directs her to a path, shaded by spruce trees, that winds around the edge of the park.

A suffusing sense of solitude accompanies the shade, and Sarah's glad they're the only ones on the path.

"So," Chuck says with a smile, "Dr. Gray's notes mention a 'him.' Why don't you tell me a little about this mystery man?"

She's silent, listening to the sound of the gravel under their feet. Where to begin? She's left so much unsaid, but this isolation is deceptive, and she's not sure how free she can be with her words.

Chuck's voice is soft when he asks, "Did you love him?"

She licks her lips, unable to see where this is taking them. "Yes."

"Did he know?"

"I hope so."

He's walking beside her, so close she can feel the heat radiating off his body. Is this the only reason he's come? So he can ascertain what her feelings for him were? Still are? Exhaling shakily, she crosses her arms.

"You never told him?" he questions quietly.

She purses her lips, feeling suddenly inadequate. Why had she never told him? "Not in so many words."

He slides his hands into his pockets, keeps his gaze fixed upon the path in front of them. "Why not?"

She shrugs. "I'm not good at telling people how I feel. I suck at relationships. I thought he knew. You're the doctor. You tell me."

"Fair enough," he chuckles.

They've reached the far side of the yard, and the path turns to follow a ten-foot stone wall. She doesn't exactly know what's on the other side, but every time she gets close enough, she can hear laughter, the energetic sound of kids playing. Chuck strolls to a stop, a distracted look on his face. He's lost in his own thoughts, and she just stands and watches him for a moment, content merely to look at him.

He grins suddenly. "I'm going to be an uncle, you know."

Sarah lets out a soft, astonished laugh. Chuck's going to be an uncle. Ellie and Devon are going to be _parents_. She holds a hand over her heart in an effort to stop it from beating so hard.

"Really?" is all she trusts herself to ask.

He finally looks at her, his grin spreading from ear to ear. "Yeah," he nods. "It's _awesome_, right?"

"Yeah, it really is. Congratulations."

"Thank you. My sister and brother-in-law are pretty excited." Wistfully, he looks at the wall and adds, "I've kind of always wanted kids of my own, though."

"This will be a good warm-up," she tells him, "for when you have them." When he turns his gaze towards her, she continues, "I never thought I wanted them, never thought I'd be in a situation where I _could_ want them, not until a little while ago."

"Let me guess, your mystery man?"

Smiling, she nods.

Continuing along the path, Chuck asks, "Is that why you loved him?"

"Partly, because he gave me a new perspective." She pauses, breathing in the cool November air. "But I think what I really love about him was that he always saw the best in me, the best in everyone. He saw beyond my past, beyond all the horrible things I'd done, and instead saw who I could be, who I wanted to be. And he made me want to be better. Loving him . . . was like starting over."

"And why did _he_ love _you_?"

The phrasing is awkward, and even though she doesn't know what he's driving at, she does know that he's trying to make her see something she's missing.

"Sometimes I wasn't so sure," Sarah confesses, reaching out to brush her hand along the wall. "But I think he loved me because I saw every part of him. He was nerdy, and awkward, and sometimes too smart for his own good. Most women would see those sides of him and dismiss him right away. But those were the bits I loved most. We accepted each other for who we were." She swallows. "And maybe it had to do with who he was around me. For years, he'd been squandering his potential. But when he was around me, I knew he could be anything he wanted to be, do anything he set his mind to."

"I think, if he were here, he'd want you to know how much you changed him," he says quietly.

"We changed each other."

Chuck nods, unable to deny the truth of that statement. He looks directly at her. "Do you feel betrayed because he's not here? Do you doubt his love for you?"

Sarah drops her eyes to stare at the fallen leaves and answers, "No."

"No?"

"No," she replies more firmly. "Because if he's out there, then he's doing everything he can to get back to me. And if he's not, then I still have my memories." She shrugs. "Either way, I loved him. I still do. And love is never something to regret."

"So you wouldn't change a thing about your relationship?" he presses. "If he were standing here in front of you, you wouldn't have anything to say to him?"

"I don't have anything to apologize for," she says softly. "We had some rough times; I made a lot of mistakes. But what I had with him was more real than anything I'd ever known, and I wouldn't take it back for the world, even the mistakes." He's quiet as he contemplates her answer, and she finally admits, "The one thing I regret, though, is not telling him."

"That you love him?"

Sarah nods. He stops and turns to face her. They're in view of the institution again, its vast ivy-covered stone walls rising like a monster out of the sea. Beatrice and a young, male nurse are standing near the doorway, apparently keeping an eye on them.

"And if you had another chance," he urges, "you would?"

"Yes."

Chuck glances at the hospital warily. "Consider this your chance, Sarah."

She takes a deep breath, hoping to stop the tears from spilling over. Here, standing in front of him, is almost too much. He's framed in late autumn sunlight, his warm eyes alive and affectionate.

And his smile . . .

How many times over the past three months had she imagined that smile? As completely as she'd had him memorized, no mental image could compare to the real, tangible thing.

"I love you, Chuck," she whispers.

His voice is quiet, too low to carry on the breeze. "I love you, too, Golden Hair."

She chokes back a half-laugh, half-sob. It's one of the only indications he's given of his true identity, his true feelings, his true plan. Even so, the comment only serves to increase her confusion. Shaking her head, she murmurs, "I don't understand how you're here."

Chuck takes a small step back, the picture of doctoral authority once again. "Questions later. But it's cold, and our session's almost over. See?" he says, gesturing to the door. "They're waiting for us." They begin a slow walk back, and, pointedly not looking at her, he continues, "The important thing is, Sarah, that you're making progress, and that means we're going to get you out of here."


	5. Are We There Yet?

A/N: Thanks to everyone for all the kind reviews so far. Glad that you seem to be enjoying the story so far!

As always, huge thank-yous to **BillatWork**, **GoldenGirl**, and **yokaputo**!

Be sure to check out the WHO ARE YOU? Competition, organized by **Fated Love**, going on _right now_. :)

_

* * *

They say there's linings made of silver  
Folded inside each raining cloud  
Well, we need someone to deliver  
Our silver lining now  
And are we there yet?  
And are we there yet?  
And are we there yet?__  
Home, home, home . . .  
- "Are We There Yet?" Ingrid Michaelson_

_

* * *

The three-month anniversary of the Woodcomb marriage goes pretty much like he expects. Sarah dons a jaw-dropping dress, Morgan calls in his congratulations from Hawaii, and the happy couple chooses a classy, low-key Italian restaurant with an extensive wine list._

_Because of the occasion, the happiness is free-flowing, the wine a little bit too much so for his taste. Sarah is more indulgent than he's ever seen her. She keeps a hand on him during the entire dinner, her fingers massaging his neck, or trailing up his thigh, or twining into his. She's on her third (fourth?) glass of Pinot Grigio when he feels her breath against his cheek._

_He swallows thickly, trying to ignore the warmth on his neck._

"_Chuck," she laughs softly._

_He winds his arm around her and takes a deep breath. The restaurant is intimately lit, perfect for a romantic dinner, but as he and Sarah have only been dating for a few months now, he's still not entirely comfortable with the whole PDA thing, especially not in front of Ellie and Awesome. _

_He leans into her, whispers against her ear, "What's gotten into you?"_

"_I don't know," she giggles. And with a wicked smile, she whispers, "But I do know what I _want_ to get into me. Or more specifically, _who_."_

_His eyes widen in shock; his face flushes with embarrassment. Sarah leans back in her chair, even as she keeps her hand on his neck._

_Though he's certain she couldn't have overheard the comment, his sister looks at him with a suspicious smile. _

_She clears her throat. "How are you two liking the new living arrangement?" she asks, mercifully drawing the majority of Sarah's attention away. But her thumb continues to trace a slow, torturous circle around the base of his neck._

"_It's amazing," Sarah replies with a friendly smile. "Very private."_

_Awesome chuckles. "That's my girl. I bet it's quiet, too, without the Morgster around."_

_Chuck, relaxing enough to finally take part in the conversation, adds, "Yeah, I miss the little dude, but I think it's working out very well." He glances at his girlfriend, glad to see that she's calmed down a bit and is regarding him affectionately._

"_I hope so," Ellie says. "You guys deserve a place of your own after all this time."_

_Keeping their gazes locked, Sarah slides her hand into his and gives it a soft squeeze. "It has been quite some time, hasn't it?" she asks quietly. _

_He swallows. "Yes, it has."_

_When they get home an hour or so later, he follows Sarah as she saunters into the kitchen._

"_Gosh! Do we have any water? I'm so thirsty!"_

_He chuckles softly as he leans against the doorframe. "I'm pretty sure we have some in the sink."_

_Sarah flounders her way over the sink, fills up a glass, and walks back over to him, sloshing a little water onto the floor. She lays a hand on his chest and gives him a sloppy kiss._

_He laughs. "You are evil, you know that?"_

_Sarah feigns shock. "Mr. Bartowski, why ever would you say such a thing?"_

"_You teased me all night!" he accuses, sliding his arms around her waist._

"_You deserved it," she protests, nodding vigorously. She holds the glass up to his lips and tips it up. "Here. Drink up!"_

_Spluttering, he chokes out, "You're a little bit drunk, aren't you?"_

_She giggles, low and throaty. "Why else would I have let you drive the Porsche home?"_

"_Of course," he acknowledges with an eye roll. "Come on. Let's get you to sleep."_

_Wide-eyed, she gulps down the rest of the water, sets the glass on the table, and allows him to lead her down the hallway to their bedroom. She's sober enough to change out of her dress and into a t-shirt to sleep in. After changing into PJs and brushing his teeth, his crawls into bed beside her and curls his arm around her waist._

"_Chuck?"_

"_Hmmm?"_

_There's silence as he waits for her to speak. She finally whispers, "This is kind of perfect. _You're_ kind of perfect."_

_A wide grin on his face, he kisses her neck, snuggles into her, and replies softly, "I think so, too."

* * *

_

She's waiting for him, sitting cross-legged on her bed in dark jeans, a long-sleeved t-shirt, and her Converses, her coat lying in front of her. She glances to her right, where Lucy is fast asleep and snoring quietly. It's the only sound in the room until just past midnight, when there's a soft click near the doorway.

Rising cautiously, Sarah picks up her coat and tiptoes to the door, only to find it unlocked. She opens it slowly, noiselessly, and she freezes at the sight in front of her.

He's there, just like she'd expected, but the sight of him still makes her weak in the knees. He's in all mission black, from his jeans to his coat, and he looks at her with such relief that it's all she can do to keep from launching herself at him.

"The guards?" she asks softly.

Chuck takes her by the hand and starts to drag her down the hallway. "I took care of them."

"All of them?"

He nods; she suppresses a shudder, not wanting to think about what he means by that, not wanting to think about how many guards there were to begin with.

"And the cameras?"

"Taken care of, too," he says, tapping his temple. "And I called in a strike team. They'll be here in thirty minutes." He smiles grimly. "By morning, there'll be nothing left of this place."

Sarah walks beside him silently. As warped as this place is, she can't help wondering what will happen to the people she leaves behind – Lucy, Beatrice . . . But she forces those thoughts from her mind as they flee, the muted sounds of their rapid footsteps over the tile the only noise in the still night.

Chuck's true to his word. He's taken out the guards, disarmed the cameras, disabled the doors. Hand-in-hand, they bolt out the heavy, wooden front doors and race out into the pitch-black parking lot. There are only a few cars, and Sarah pulls him to the side to dodge a red Ford truck.

Chuck's hand slips from hers as he falls to the ground, knocked down by the butt of a gun.

Sarah veers around when she feels his hand fall out of her grasp.

Beatrice is there, leveling a gun at Sarah's forehead.

The incongruity of it all hits Sarah like a flash. She doesn't know how she didn't realize it before. The young nurse can't be more than 21 or 22, her youth given away by the trembling in her hands as she holds the gun, by the terror in her sea-green eyes.

Keeping her gaze trained on the nurse, Sarah kneels down to check on Chuck.

"You okay?" she asks quietly, running a hand over his chest.

"Uh, yeah, yeah," he answers, sounding stunned from the blow.

Sarah stands and takes a step forward. "Beatrice . . ."

The younger woman swallows thickly, her eyes tinged with fear. "Don't come any closer!"

Sarah complies. She can feel Chuck behind her now, his presence giving her much-needed security. "You're not a killer, Bea. Why are you doing this?"

"Because you're the enemy," she says, her voice tortured, her brow knit in torment. "And the best way to destroy an enemy is to destroy the people she cares about. She'll take care of the rest." Beatrice laughs mirthlessly. "At least, that's what they said."

"You're . . . a Ring agent?" Sarah asks, and Beatrice's eyes flicker away for a split second. "Are you even CIA? Or are you actually a nurse? What are they holding over you, Bea?"

"Stop calling me that!"

Chuck puts a hand on her arm, but she gives a slight shake of her head.

"So what happens now, Beatrice?" Sarah asks quietly. "This starts all over again? You deliver me to your bosses, and then what? What thanks will you get? You think you'll move up the ladder?" She chuckles. "No. You're just as dispensable as you were before, maybe even more so, because you've already done what they needed you to do."

Beatrice shakes her head and insists, "You don't know anything about it."

"I've been in this world for ten years now. And how long have you been working for them? A year? Six months? Whatever you're after, it's not worth it."

"And what are _you_ after, Sarah? What do _you_ want so badly?"

Sarah takes a breath, finds Chuck's hand, and entangles their fingers. "Love," she breathes. "There's not a lot worth living for in this world, but one day, you might find someone who gives you a reason."

Beatrice lowers her gun partially. "That's Chuck? Dr. Reynolds is Chuck? H-how?"

After staying silent for so long, Chuck speaks up. "I adore this woman," he says feelingly. "Do you really think I'd just abandon her?"

"Where will you go?"

"Anywhere, as long as we get away from here," Sarah answers. "He's my life, and it's time I start living."

Beatrice's shoulders slump as she lowers the gun to the ground. She wipes her forehead, squeezing her eyes shut as she thinks.

Seeing that the younger woman isn't about to shoot, Sarah takes a step forward and says, "You're the only one who can help us right now."

Hearing an owl hoot in the distance, she suddenly realizes how freezing it is out here. The winter night is bleak and cold, and clouds blot out the moon. Chuck lifts his hands to her arms to warm her.

Beatrice stands there, a reflective, tortured look on her face, and Sarah can't help thinking they might have been good friends if things had turned out differently.

Quietly, Beatrice sighs and says, "Make it look good. I don't care if it hurts."

Sarah narrows her eyes in confusion, but Beatrice lifts the gun again, and suddenly she understands. She understands, even if she doesn't want to do this.

Reluctantly, she knocks the gun out of the nurse's hand, sends it clattering to the pavement with a well-aimed kick. She takes a step closer, curling her first, and peers at the woman she thought she could trust.

"Sarah?"

Sarah pauses.

"I'm sorry," Beatrice says quietly. "Forgive me."

"I hope you get out of this," Sarah tells her sincerely.

Not waiting for a response, she takes a swing, lands a punch squarely against the younger woman's jaw. She hits the ground hard, her head slamming against the pavement, and Sarah stands over her, an anguished look passing across her face. She can't seem to stop staring at the spray of blood against the asphalt.

She's pulled back to the present by a warm touch on her arm, and she looks up into Chuck's anxious face. Without a word, they turn and start for the back of the parking lot, where an inconspicuous black Pontiac is parked. Chuck hops into the driver's seat while Sarah takes shotgun, and they're off before either can say a word.

* * *

"What happens now?"

His voice cuts through the darkness, startles her. It's nearly four a.m., and she's been struggling to stay awake. A car passes them in the opposite direction, its headlamps sending a brief wash of light through the vehicle's interior and lighting up Chuck's face.

He looks tired, worn out. She probably looks the same, if not worse. There's a dull ache in the knuckles of her right hand, but she ignores it.

"What do you mean?" she asks, her voice weary.

He's the only one whom she can let down her defenses in front of. He's the only one who accepts her weaknesses and looks beyond them. He's the only one who sees every aspect of her. Right now, she's grateful she doesn't have to put up a front, doesn't have to pretend to be strong for him.

"We're out," he says softly, "but what if they find us again?"

"They might."

"And what then?"

"Then we fight, the same as we always do." Swallowing, she looks over at him. "It's never going to be easy, Chuck, but let's hope the team you called in wiped everyone out. And maybe they even found some clues to who's really behind all this. That way, at least we can go back to our lives."

He nods, clearly discomfited. "And what if they don't get everyone?"

Her heart nearly breaks at the look on his face. She wants to tell him to stop driving, to have him stop the car and just pull him into a hug and never let go, but from the way his knuckles show white against the steering wheel, she has the distinct feeling that driving is the only distraction that's keeping him going. He needs something to concentrate on while holding this conversation, even if it happens to be four o'clock in the morning and he happens to be half-asleep, even if he won't remember it in the morning.

"Worst case scenario," she answers in a whisper, "we'll have to get new identities, leave everyone behind." Reaching out quickly to lay her hand over his, she adds more forcefully, "But I won't let that happen, Chuck. You know I won't."

He turns his head to glance at her, his eyes sunken and exhausted. She can see the stubble already appearing on his chin, giving him an even more worn-out look. And there's a nasty, purpling bruise that's starting to appear beneath his right eye. He'd refused to let her take care of it, but she's not sure how much he can see out of that eye.

Reaching over to cup his cheek, she asks, "Why don't you let me drive for a while? You need some sleep."

"Maybe in a little while."

Sarah nods and leans back in her seat. She's drained, but there's no way she can fall asleep now, not after everything that's happened, not with all these thoughts coursing through her mind. The one that sticks out most prominently, though, is how much he must have gone through to rescue her.

Rescues occur often in a job like this, from tiny ones to immense ones involving lots of sacrifice. But Sarah can count on one hand the number of times someone who cared about her personally came after her, not because it was their job, just because they needed to see her alive again.

Her face crumples involuntarily, and she takes deep breaths in an effort to hold back the deluge.

"I can't believe you came for me," she whispers over the roar of the road.

Chuck is silent, his knuckles grasping the steering wheel with a fervor she can't quite fathom. And then, relaxing and sliding his hand on top of hers, he replies in a low, emphatic voice, "I'd walk through hell for you."

"I think we just did," she chuckles softly.

He clears his throat, rubbing his thumb over hers, and, hesitantly, asks, "Why . . . why'd you use my name?"

Looking out the window, Sarah takes a deep breath. His hand on hers is comforting, though, and gives her courage. "At first, I didn't know what was going on. It was all a ruse of course, but no one seemed to know who I was. The only thing I was certain of was that you weren't there, you weren't by my side." She pauses. "Using your name . . . it was a way of staying connected to you. Beatrice was the only one who knew your first name, but hearing "Bartowski" every day made it real. Everything we shared was real, even if they told me it wasn't." She leans her forehead against the cool glass of the window, her breath fogging as she exhales. "Only after I realized the institution was run by the Ring did I realize how stupid that had been. And I apologize, for putting you and Ellie in danger."

Chuck places his hand on her neck, and she turns her face to see him smiling. "Danger's always been pretty good at finding me," he says.

She chuckles softly, but the chuckle fades when she notices his face fall as he turns back to the road. "Hey," she says, threading her fingers into the wavy locks of hair at the back of his neck, "what happened?" Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, he keeps his eyes trained on the road. But his shoulders are tense, and she can tell something's wrong. "You can tell me, you know," she murmurs encouragingly. "You saw firsthand what I went through, and you were the only reason I got through it. So let me help you through this."

Chuck lets a moment go by before clearing his throat and saying, "I was with Fulcrum . . . with Jill." His voice cracks as he adds, "The things they made me do, Sarah . . ." He trails off, shaking his head.

"Shh, shh," she whispers, leaning toward him and stroking his neck. "It's okay. You're okay now."

"They used me, Sarah. I never saw any of it; I was never involved with any of the missions directly. But it's Fulcrum, and I know what kinds of things they must have done because of me."

Rubbing his arm tenderly, Sarah consoles, "We don't have to worry about any of that, Chuck. Not right now."

He finally looks at her, his warm ocher eyes heavy with ardor. "We're together now," he whispers. "That's all that matters, right?"

She places a soft, gentle kiss on his lips. "Right."

They lapse into silence, and Sarah, thinking to ease his nerves, switches on the radio. Turning the volume on low, she finds a soft rock station.

An hour later, when the sky's still pitch black, Chuck turns the radio volume up. Yawning, Sarah sits up when she recognizes the song. He had surprised her, one day last June, when he referred to her as "Golden Hair." Not familiar with music, she hadn't gotten the reference. Then he'd played this song for her, and "Golden Hair" had become his name for her, something he used when no one else was around.

So when the chorus kicks in and he starts singing softly, she can't resist joining in.

"Will you meet me in the middle, will you meet me in the air? Will you love me just a little, just enough to show you care? Well, I tried to fake it, I don't mind saying, I just can't make it."

She's not as good a singer as Chuck, but he's never seemed to care. Right now, he turns to her with a smile and sings, "Well, I keep on thinkin' 'bout you, Sister Golden Hair surprise. And I just can't live without you. Can't you see it in my eyes?"

And for just a minute, as Chuck maneuvers the car around a wide turn, Sarah feels completely at ease. For a minute, they're a normal couple on vacation, taking the scenic route on the back country roads and valuing each other's company. For a minute, Sarah is a woman in love, with no cares in the world, just listening to her boyfriend sing to her.

* * *

They drive for two days straight, stopping only for gas, bathroom breaks, or food. They switch off on driving duties and catch a few hours of sleep curled up uncomfortably in the passenger's seat. Finally arriving at Casey's safe house amidst a torrent of rain, they huddle beneath Chuck's jacket as they scurry up the front porch steps and out of the inclement weather.

Now, lying in bed and listening to the rain pound against the windows, Sarah feels a bizarre anticlimactic ache.

And then Chuck crawls under the covers, sidles up against her, and slides his arm over her waist. Sighing sleepily, he buries his face in her hair.

"I'm so _tired_," he mumbles. "G'night."

"Wait," she whispers.

"Hmm?"

She reaches back to curl her fingers into his hair. There are a million thoughts racing through her head; there are a million things she wants to say to him. But one thing sticks out in sharp relief against all the others.

"I love you, Chuck."


	6. The Way I Am

A/N: As always, thanks to **BillatWork**, **GoldenGirl**, **yokaputo**!

You guys can rest easy now. The drama's over! Just one more chapter to go after this. :) Thanks for all the reviews so far.

_

* * *

If you are chilly, here take my sweater.  
Your head is aching, I'll make it better. . . ._  
'_Cause I love you more than I could ever promise,__  
And you take me the way I am.  
- "The Way I Am," Ingrid Michaelson_

_

* * *

Ellie and Awesome throw the best parties. In ten years of CIA service, she's been to more than her fair share of parties, but she's never had as much fun as she does when she's at a Woodcomb party. Tonight's their first official party as a married couple, and it's the warmest housewarming Sarah's ever been part of._

_Their new house is spacious and livable, and the back yard even has an in-ground pool. The guests are numerous; the hosts are happy, relaxed. Ellie and Sarah, drinks in their hands and smiles on their faces, sit in patio chairs in a larger circle of Ellie's hospital friends. Their boyfriends, fiancés, and husbands are all off checking out Devon's new flat screen or helping the new family man with the grilling, leaving plenty of space for the women to relax._

_And gossip._

_And right now, the topic of choice is _Sarah_._

_Blushing to her roots, Sarah sinks a little in her chair. "Oh, stop," she pleads futilely._

_Her companions simply laugh harder._

_Lily, a sharp-witted nurse who works with Ellie and Awesome, looks over at Chuck where he's sitting by the side of the pool and says, "If I had known that Chuck was going to turn out like that, I never would have made such a fuss about going out on a date with him."_

"_I asked you at least five times, and you would never go on one measly date with him," Ellie laughs. She sticks her tongue out playfully and adds, "Now you've lost your chance."_

_Smiling, Lily responds with a raspberry of her own. "Well, that was nearly four years ago, El. He was a dweeb."_

"_Hey, watch it," Sarah interjects._

"_Well, he was!" Lily laughs. "He sure as hell wasn't like he is now. All cute, and confident . . . and kind of ripped, actually."_

_The group laughs, and the woman next to Lily is game enough to smack her on the shoulder. _

"_Thanks, Olivia," Ellie says._

"_Okay," Sarah says, "speaking of Chuck, I think I need to go over there before one of you tries to steal him from under my nose."_

"_Like that's possible," Lily snorts. "That boy adores you."_

_Sarah rolls her eyes, but Ellie, relief evident in her voice, agrees, "He really does." She turns to Sarah, puts a hand on her arm, and says confidentially, "I'm so glad things are working out for you. Something really seemed to click for you two, right around the wedding even."_

"_Me, too," Sarah replies softly. She stands and says, "But I think Chuck's been neglected long enough, don't you?" She sends a wave over her shoulder and walks off toward the pool._

_On her way, she swings by the drink table and grabs a mojito off of one of Devon's surgeon buddies. Chuck, still in his t-shirt, is sitting on the side of the pool, his feet hanging into the water. She takes a seat beside him and bumps his shoulder._

"_I brought you something," she tells him, offering him the drink._

"_Ooh," he smiles, "social lubricant. Just what the doctor ordered."_

_Sarah laughs. "Please don't say 'lubricant' in public. Ever."_

_Laughing, he slides an arm around her waist. "Promise," he says. "Thanks for coming over. You looked like you were having fun over there."_

"_Yeah," she shrugs. "But I'd rather be with you."_

_Sarah moves in for a kiss, but Chuck quickly breaks it off when a chorus of "awww"s sounds from the girls on the patio._

"_Looks like we have an audience," Chuck whispers._

_Smiling, Sarah sighs and rests her head against his shoulder. "Yeah, sorry. Ellie's friends are very . . . curious," she laughs. "On the plus side, they all think you're very handsome."_

"_Really? Cool," Chuck laughs. He takes a sip of the mojito and grimaces. "Whoa, this is strong!" Giggling, Sarah winds her arms around his neck. He narrows his eyes and looks down at her. "I'm on to you, Miss Walker."_

"_Are you now?"_

"_Of course. Bringing me drinks that are more alcohol than mixer."_

"_Oh, right," she chuckles. "I want to have my way with you later tonight, and the only way I can do that is to get you fall-down drunk."_

"_There is a flaw in your plan, however."_

_She lifts an eyebrow. "What's that?"_

"_If you wanted to get me drunk, you should have gotten _my_ favorite drink. Not yours."_

"_Damn. You're right. But how could I pass up pomegranate?" Taking the glass from him, she takes a sip and sets it on the ground beside her. "I have a better idea. Why don't we go for a swim?"_

"_I don't know," he falters. "I just ate a handful of nachos, and I should probably wait at least another fifteen minutes before swimming. Besides, aren't we supposed to eat soon?"_

_Sarah stands and pulls him up. "Oh, no. You're not getting out of this that easily." She strips off her shorts and tank top to reveal a red two-piece swimsuit before sliding her hands under his shirt, pulling it over his head, and tossing it on top of the pile of her own clothes._

_Chuck squirms. "I have a bad feeling about this," he says._

_Giggling, Sarah slips her hand into his and sidles up close. "Come on," she urges quietly. "It's just us."_

_Inclining his head, he whispers, "I can still see everyone. And they're all staring at us."_

_She sighs and threads her fingers into his hair. Her lips brushing against his, she whispers, "They're just jealous."_

_While not completely satisfactory, the answer does serve to silence Chuck, who surrenders to her kiss. Sarah pulls away with a grin on her face, and they stand there at the deep end, their hands connected, their toes hanging over the edge of the pool. _

"_We'll jump together," she suggests._

"_On three?"_

"_One . . ."_

"_Two . . ."_

"_Three!"_

* * *

They have a list now, like a real couple who has more personal and pressing things to do than to save the world. It's a long list, but they're making some headway. Thanks to his father (again), Chuck's finally got the second Intersect out of his head. They're moving into a house, an actual house, a first for both of them. And Sarah's in Washington to hand in her resignation.

After all they've been through, the least she could do was let Beckman know in person.

Besides, she has an ulterior agenda.

Which is why she's currently on the seventh floor, striding through the hallways like she knows exactly where she's going. People stop working as she passes them. Their eyes follow her, and they whisper to each other behind their hands, thinking she won't notice.

She pretends not to, instead spotting what she's after on the far end of the room and heading straight toward her goal without sparing a glance to anyone or anything around her. Standing at the entrance of the cubicle, Sarah clears her throat.

The young woman looks up timidly.

"Hi, Beatrice," Sarah smiles warmly.

Beatrice glances around at her fellow analysts, looking for all the world like she wants the earth to swallow her whole right now.

"Sarah!" She greets in a shaky voice. She swallows nervously, her face flushing. "What are you, what are you doing here?"

Sarah looks around in time to catch her acquaintance's coworkers pretending to be buried in their work, doing their best to act like they're not eavesdropping. But there's a reason they're all analysts and not field agents.

Raising an eyebrow, she turns back to Beatrice. "I had some business upstairs. I thought you might be free for lunch."

"You want to go to lunch with _me_?" she asks incredulously.

Sarah nods, a nod that brooks no room for argument.

"But why?" Beatrice asks.

Shrugging, Sarah picks up a metal puzzle from the desk and fiddles with it. "I thought we could catch up. Come on," she urges. "It'll be fun. Just an hour. That's all I ask."

Beatrice leans back in her chair with a frown. She sighs and tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. "Well, I haven't eaten yet."

"Great!" Sarah replies, feeling an irrational happiness. "I know this great bistro a few minutes away. I got the owner out of scrape a few years back. Now I get free sandwiches," she chuckles.

Fifteen minutes later, the two women sit across from each other in the back corner of Sammy's. Sarah takes a bite out of her roast beef sandwich and lets Beatrice scrutinize her.

"What are you really doing here?" Beatrice asks quietly.

Sarah tilts her head. "What do you mean?"

"I treated you horribly. If I were you, I wouldn't even talk to me, let alone be nice to me."

Sarah drops her eyes and takes a sip of her Coke before admitting, "I needed some closure."

"Okay," the younger woman replies with a nod, "_that_ I can accept. What do you want to know?"

Sarah sighs. "Why they wanted me. What they thought they were accomplishing by locking me up."

"You'd gotten too close," Beatrice tells her matter-of-factly. "They started to know who you were, to connect you with botched missions. And they started to want you either on their side, or permanently disposed of."

"So the mental institution?"

Beatrice purses her lips. "That's a unique tactic, something they only use on people they want to retain." She pauses, collecting her thoughts. "The point is obviously to break your enemy, but in such a way that they break themselves. You take away everything they love, everything they care about, and convince them that none of it was real. You just have to plant the seed."

Inhaling deeply, Sarah asks, "Has it ever worked?"

"Yes," Beatrice admits. "The process is incredibly destructive though. It takes a long time before the agent is in working condition again."

Sarah takes another bite of her sandwich as she tries not to think about what would have happened if they had succeeded in breaking her. After a minute, she asks, "And what about you?"

"What about me?" Beatrice counters nonchalantly.

"How'd you get mixed up with them?"

Sighing, Beatrice rests her chin on her hand and gazes out the window. "My boyfriend had just left me. He'd gambled away most of my savings and took off with the rest, leaving me to raise our daughter on my own."

"You have a daughter?" Sarah interjects, wondering how she'd missed it before.

Beatrice nods, takes a photo out of her wallet, and slides it across the table. Sarah takes it in her hand, and a smile comes to her face as she looks at the beaming two-year-old with flowing, dark brown hair and vibrant green eyes.

"I didn't really know where to turn," Beatrice continues. "And right when I hit bottom, they were there with what I needed. They supplemented my pay, offered me childcare support."

Softly, Sarah prompts, "And what did they want in return?"

"You."

Sarah shakes her head. "I still don't understand why they chose you."

"Just chance," replies Beatrice. "I happened to be the analyst in charge of filing some of your reports. So I had some prior knowledge of who you were, and they needed that. The fact that I needed some help in my personal life was just good luck, for them."

Sarah nods. That makes sense. It's exactly something they would do, exploit a young woman's weakness for their gain. "And what about Chuck?" she asks.

Pursing her lips, Beatrice replies, "Fulcrum helped us get you in exchange for him. I don't know what they wanted with him, but since we only wanted you . . ."

"You were only too happy to get him out of the way," Sarah finishes for her.

"Exactly," the younger woman answers, shifting uncomfortably in her seat.

Turning her eyes back to the picture, Sarah asks, "What's her name?"

Beatrice, a little stunned by the sudden shift in conversation, softens and says, "Naomi. She's two now."

"That's beautiful," Sarah smiles. "_She_'s beautiful."

"Thank you." Beatrice stirs her Coke with her straw. Timidly, she asks, "What about you and Chuck? Are you thinking about kids?"

Sarah's smile grows. "Yeah," she answers hesitantly. "Yeah, we're thinking about it. We both want a family, but I think we're going to wait a little while." Holding up her left hand to show her engagement ring, she chuckles. "The first order of business is to get married. We figured we'd take it from there."

Beatrice laughs. "Well, best wishes. Is Chuck around?"

"He's never been to Washington before, so he's out seeing the sights with his sister and brother-in-law. I'm supposed to meet up with them this afternoon."

Beatrice glances around shyly before asking, "Will you apologize to him for me?"

"No."

"What?"

"Do it yourself," Sarah responds gently. "You know how to reach him."

Chuckling, Beatrice rolls her eyes. "You don't make anything easy, do you?"

Sarah laughs. "Where would the fun be in that?"

"Fair enough. I'll tell him myself."

"Good."

A few more minutes drift by before Sarah works up the courage to say, "I want to know why you let me go."

Beatrice blushes and doesn't meet her eye. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Please," Sarah responds, "you saved mine and Chuck's lives by letting us go. The only reason I'm here is because of you."

"I could say the same thing." Sarah lifts an eyebrow, and Beatrice continues, "Come on, Sarah. I know you're the only reason I wasn't locked up and left to rot. I'm the only Ring member who wasn't either killed or arrested, and you're the reason I still have a job." She pauses, purses her lips while she thinks. "You and Chuck are legends around the office now, you know that? I couldn't forget about what I owe you if I tried."

"Well, that's easy," Sarah says gently. "I helped you because you saved me. That's logical, isn't it? And I liked you. In a different world, maybe we could've been friends."

"We were friends once, weren't we?" Beatrice asks sadly, a wistful expression in her eyes.

"Yeah," Sarah agrees, "we were. And maybe we can be again."

"I'd like that."

"I still want to know why you helped me when you had no reason to."

Beatrice sighs and avoids her gaze. "I may have deceived you about little things, but I never lied to you about being your friend. I trusted you just as much as you trusted me." Beatrice takes a deep breath. "When you started telling me about Chuck, when I saw how much he had changed you, how deeply you cared for him, how was I supposed to take that away from you? I tried, yeah, because it was my job, but there was no way I could do that to you. To either of you. Just because I hadn't found my happy ending yet didn't mean I could take away yours."

Sarah nods, accepting the explanation without a word. That's exactly what she'd come for, the answers she'd been after.

"I'm starting a security company," she tells her proudly.

Beatrice raises her eyebrows incredulously. "You're quitting the agency?"

"I handed in my resignation this morning." Sarah lets that hang for a moment before offering, "I'd like you to come work for me."

Beatrice chokes on her Coke and sputters, "Excuse me?"

Sarah smiles. "Just promise me you'll think about it. Okay?"

* * *

Standing in the doorway, Sarah pauses a moment to drink it all in. This is _their_ party, these are _their_ friends, this is _their_ yard. For the first time in her 29 years, she can finally describe her life as "stable." And the man who sleeps beside her every night is one whom she can count on, one whom she can trust unreservedly. Smiling, she walks onto the patio, where her sister-in-law and a group of women sit in a circle. Ellie, holding her six-month-old son in one arm, gestures to an empty chair beside her, which Sarah takes readily.

Zach, a blonde-haired, bubbly little boy, smiles and holds out his arms when he sees his aunt Sarah.

"Hey there, handsome," Sarah says as she scoops up her nephew and blows a raspberry on his cheek. The baby laughs in delight at her antics.

Lily, sitting on Sarah's other side, looks over with a smile and remarks, "Wow, that kid sure takes to you."

"Sarah's his favorite," Ellie informs the women.

Lily laughs. "Figures."

"It's just my natural charm, I guess," Sarah shrugs, smiling.

"So when are you and Chuck going to use that natural charm and make beautiful babies of your own?" Lily asks cheekily.

"Soon," Sarah laughs.

"It better be," Ellie interjects playfully. "I want nieces and nephews."

"I'm available for babysitting, just letting you know," Lily offers. "But I think we all know the real issue here."

"Which is?" Ellie prompts.

"From now on," Lily announces, "I'm only trusting the two of you to set me up. Obviously, given your choices of husbands, you have impeccable taste. I need that to rub off on me."

Ellie and Sarah laugh, but Olivia, sitting next to Lily, looks affronted. "What about that guy I set you up with last week? He was cute!"

Lily wrinkles her nose. "He also texted his ex throughout dinner. No thank you!"

Ellie opens her mouth to respond, but her words are forgotten as a _boom_ sounds from across the yard. The women look over to see the grill in flames, smoke curling towards the sky.

Rising and passing baby Zach off to his mother, Sarah says, "Excuse me, I think I need to go make sure my husband's not blowing himself up now," and runs off.

But when she makes her way to the grill, Chuck is nowhere in sight. Instead, she finds Jeff and Lester, trying and failing to look innocent, their smoke-blackened faces giving them away. Beside them, Morgan is chugging a two-liter of grape soda.

She shakes her head with a disbelieving smile. "Okay," she tells them. "Just don't blow anything up." She looks at Morgan curiously. "And you might want to slow down there, Morgan."

Jeff and Lester, after promising not to hurt anyone, inform her that Chuck is in the kitchen retrieving another case of beer. She nods and thanks them, but doubles back to grab their beer cans on her way to the house.

Sure enough, Chuck is crouching in front of the fridge, sliding a twelve-pack off the bottom shelf. She sets the cans on the table and kneels down beside him.

"Need some help?" she asks. He looks up and, startled to find her so close, falls backward onto the tile floor. Laughing, she maneuvers over the case of beer and climbs over him. "Are you all right?"

Chuck, blushing profusely, laughs and replies, "Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay. But don't scare me like that!"

"I'm sorry," she chuckles, leaning down to place a gentle kiss on his lips. Waggling her eyebrows, she suggests, "I'll make it up to you?"

"Ooh," he says as he wraps his arms around her waist and pulls her close. "Right now?"

"Nice try," she smiles.

"Come on," he pleads with his characteristic lopsided grin. "Who's going to notice if we slip off for a little while?"

She slaps his chest playfully. "We're the hosts, Chuck. I think people are going to notice."

"Fine," he says with an exaggerated groan.

Before they can stand up, Beatrice walks swiftly into the kitchen holding a wailing three-year-old in her arms. Sarah quickly extricates herself from Chuck's embrace.

"Oh, Naomi!" she says, trying to grab the child's attention. "What's the matter?"

"She stepped on a bee," Beatrice explains, wincing as her daughter's cries escalate in intensity. "Do you have any baking soda?"

"Of course!"

Sarah grabs it from the cupboard and takes Naomi in her arms, leaving Beatrice free to mix the baking soda into a paste. Chuck, who's gotten up and brushed himself off by this point, takes hold of Naomi's hand and smiles at her.

"Hello, cutie," he says, swinging her arm.

The little girl calms down a bit, her sobs decreasing, as she ponders the spectacle in front of her. Chuck begins singing "Roll with the Changes", complete with air guitar solo, distracting her long enough for her mother to apply the paste to the bee sting on her foot.

"There you go," Beatrice announces.

Naomi, smiling now, dries the tears from her cheeks with the back of her tiny fist.

"Thank you so much," Beatrice says as she takes her daughter back in her arms. "You're okay now, right, kiddo?" Naomi nods and buries her face in her mother's shoulder. "Oh, I think it's time for a nap."

Sarah smiles. "You can use the guest bedroom, if you'd like."

"Thank you again. For everything."

The moment Beatrice leaves the kitchen, Anna walks in from outside, dragging Morgan by the elbow. The bearded man is clutching his stomach and groaning, his face contorted in pain.

Chuck, smiling, sighs and leans against the counter. "What's the matter now, Morg?"

"Lester dared him to drink two two-liter bottles of grape soda," Anna informs them hurriedly.

"Ah, okay!" Chuck flails, pushing his friends out of the kitchen. "Bathroom. Go, go, go!"

Morgan groans as Anna hastily pulls him out into the hallway. Sarah watches them go and leans into her husband.

"He's going to be okay, right?" she asks, curious.

"Oh, yeah," Chuck assures her. "This is not the worst thing he's consumed in his lifetime."

She raises an eyebrow. "Let me guess. Not the worst dare he's taken, either?"

"Not a chance," Chuck laughs. Smiling, he places a hand on her abdomen. "You know, after being friends with him for two decades, having children doesn't really seem that hard."

Sarah grins and puts her hand over his. "No," she agrees, "changing diapers and being woken up by a howling infant will be considerably easier than being friends with Morgan."

"You'd be surprised," he chuckles. "I feel like he's prepared me for anything." He gives her a peck on the lips before murmuring, "So can we tell them now?"

"Hmm, why don't we wait until your best friend is finished puking his guts out?"

He nods. "I can work with that."

"At dinner, then?"

"Sounds like a plan."

She grins. "Okay, but in that case, you may want to go rescue the grill from Jeff and Lester."

He laughs, then stops abruptly, his eyebrows raised. "Wait, seriously? And you didn't stop them?"

Shrugging, Sarah grins. "They promised not to blow anyone up."

"Oh, gee," he chuckles dryly, "that makes me feel much better."

She stands on her tiptoes to brush a soft kiss against his lips. "Come on, mister. We've got a party to host."

She starts to leave, pulling him by the hand, but he stops her. She looks back questioningly, and her heart melts when she sees the look on his face. She owes her life, her _sanity_, to this man.

"I love you, Golden Hair," he whispers. Shrugging, a sheepish look on his face, he adds, "I just, I didn't think I'd told you in a while."

Sarah, wrapping him in a tight embrace, kisses him fervently. "I know, Chuck," she replies softly. Giving him another kiss, she smiles and says, "You're my world. You know that."

"Yeah," he grins. Extending his hand, he asks, "Shall we?"

Sarah takes his hand, and, as they walk back out onto the patio together, her heart swells with happiness when she realizes just how far they've come.


	7. Everybody

A/N: Thank you to **BillatWork**, **GoldenGirl**, and **yokaputo **for betaing this entire story. They are fantastic and did a fantastic job keeping me focused.

Thanks for all the reviews as well! I hope the epilogue satisfies expectations now that the entire story has come together. :)

_

* * *

Happy is the heart that still feels pain  
Darkness drains and light will come again  
Swing open your chest and let it in  
Just let the love, love, love begin  
Everybody, everybody wants to love  
Everybody, everybody wants to be loved  
- "Everybody," Ingrid Michaelson_

* * *

A knock sounds at her office door just as Sarah hangs up the phone.

"Come in," she says, glad for the distraction.

She loves her job. As head of Pineapple Security, she still gets to help people, still gets to use the skills she honed in the agency. But she has to admit, sitting in an office is sometimes not the most exciting thing in the world. Especially on Thursday mornings, especially in this awful desk chair. So yes, right now, she's very glad for any distractions.

She shifts uncomfortably, trying to stretch out a knot in her lower back, but that thought flies out of her head when a blonde-haired, blue-eyed four-year-old boy bounds through the doorway, across the room, and onto her lap.

"Hey, Jake," she says with a grin, tousling the youngster's hair.

He laughs delightedly, and she looks toward the doorway to see her lean, lanky husband resting his shoulder against the frame and holding their fifteen-month-old daughter against his hip. With bright, smiling eyes and a goofy grin to match her father's, Sophie is almost too adorable for her own good.

"What are you guys doing here?" Sarah asks with a smile.

Chuck walks into the room and sits on the edge of her desk. "We just thought we'd drop by for lunch," he says. Taking his daughter's hand in his, he waves. "Say 'hi' to Mom, Soph."

Sarah laughs and stretches out a hand to tickle the toddler's chin. "Hey, baby girl."

"So how 'bout it?" Chuck asks innocently.

"Lunch? What'd you have in mind?"

"Well," he replies, bouncing Sophie on his knee and pretending to think, "there's this fantastic Italian place over in Ridgecrest."

"Ridgecrest?" Sarah repeats incredulously. "That's nearly three hours away."

"And?"

Sarah rolls her eyes. "I can't take a six-hour lunch."

"You won't be," he answers. "You'll be taking the rest of the week off." She lifts an eyebrow, and he grins. "I booked us a room at the Furnace Creek Inn. Tonight through Sunday."

"Chuck . . ." she sighs, trying to hide a broad smile at his thoughtfulness.

"Come on," he urges with a smile. "It'll be fun. Death Valley!"

"How am I supposed to explain to my employees that I'm taking an impromptu vacation?"

He leans forward conspiratorially to whisper, "Then don't tell them." He shrugs, and resuming his normal voice, adds, "Just tell them you're going for lunch."

She leans back in her chair, one hand on Jake's side to make sure he doesn't fall out of her lap. "And just not come back?"

"Ooh, good, you're catching on."

Sarah laughs but is distracted by Jake as he grabs a pen lying on her desk and starts scribbling on the various papers strewn about. Suspending his miniscule wrist for a moment, she quickly shoves a blank sheet of paper beneath his pen and lets him have at it. Looking back up at her husband, she asks, "And what about the kids?"

"Ellie and Awesome already said they'd take them. No big deal."

Chuck looks down at her, his eyes open wide in supplication. And then he holds Sophie in front of her, and as hard as she tries to fight it, the little girl's giggles are more than enough to win her over.

"Fine," Sarah relents, scooping Jake into her arms and standing. "But this better be one hell of a lunch."

Chuck, looking scandalized, covers Sophie's ears. "Sarah," he admonishes teasingly, "there are children in the room."

Taking a step closer to him, she replies, "I'm very sorry. Should I go soap my mouth out?"

"Hmmm, I think I have a better punishment for you."

"And that would be?"

He leans forward to place a soft, lingering kiss on her lips.

She pulls back with a smile. "Hmm, maybe I'll have to swear in front of the kids more often," she says playfully.

Laughing, Chuck slides a hand behind her and rests his palm on the small of her back. "You ready?"

"Yeah, just let me grab my bag."

"No, let me," he offers, picking it up before she can even make a move for it.

Sarah shifts Jake, getting much too big to be carried, against her hip and ruffles his hair. "You all ready, big guy?"

He nods. "Can I have a piggy back ride, Mom?"

"What do you say?" she asks, setting him on his feet.

"Please?"

"Of course you can." On her haunches, she turns around so he can clamber onto her back. She hooks her arms around his legs, and he puts his small arms around her neck. "Are you on?"

"Uh-huh."

"Good."

Sarah scrambles to her feet, shifting her son into a more comfortable position. Chuck opens the office door for her, and she leads the way into the main office. Her secretary, Howie, just a few years out of college, looks up from his phone call and hangs up as they approach his desk. She realizes how ridiculous a picture they must present right now – a grown woman in a business suit carrying a four-year-old on her back. Fortunately, Howie's been with the company long enough to see them at their weirdest, and it doesn't even phase him.

"Mrs. Bartowski," he greets pleasantly. "Mr. Bartowski," he nods to Chuck, who smiles in return. Turning back to his boss, Howie says, "Ben Croft just called. He needs to talk to you about PR stuff. I told him you were out, but that you'd call him back."

"Thanks," she replies. "Actually, we're going to lunch. Could you hold my calls for a while?"

"Of course."

"Great. Thanks. Is Bea in?"

"No, she's still out supervising an install. She should be back soon, though."

"Okay. When she gets back, she's in charge. Until then, hold down the fort. Will you be all right on your own for a little bit?"

Howie nods. "No problem. Have a nice lunch. It was good to see you again, Mr. Bartowski."

"You too, Howie," Chuck responds as he shakes the young man's hand.

Unable to keep silent any more, Jake shouts from his perch, "Howie!"

"Hey there, little fella," Howie laughs. He holds up a paper plane. "How 'bout an airplane?"

Jake accepts it with a delighted smile, and neither Chuck nor Sarah has to prompt him to say 'Thank you.' When Sophie begins to murmur in distress, the young secretary smiles at her and says, "Don't worry. You get one, too."

He holds a miniature airplane out to her. She takes it in her small hand and examines it with wide eyes before chewing on it to examine the taste. Chuck laughs.

"You can't win them all," Howie says with a shrug and a grin.

"Thanks again, Howie," Sarah says as they make their way out of the office. "See you . . . tomorrow!"

He waves at them before returning to his work. Emerging into the late morning sunlight, Sarah has the strangest feeling like she's fifteen years old again and cutting school. Except this time she's the principal, and she's leaving a school full of rowdy teenagers free to their own devices. She can only imagine the chaos she'll find when she returns on Monday morning.

But that thought fades away as she follows Chuck to the car. He grins as he tries to keep Sophie from swallowing the paper airplane, and Sarah lets out a soft laugh at the sight. Sometimes she has no idea how she got this lucky, to have a loving husband, and two gorgeous children, and a life that's as close to perfect as she can imagine.

Sometimes, though, it's enough just to be thankful.

When the kids are safely buckled, Sarah slides into the passenger's seat. The sun beats down warmly through the car windows, and she leans back in the seat and closes her eyes. A broad smile comes to her face as she feels Chuck slide his hand over hers.

"Thank you, Chuck," she murmurs.

Chuckling, he gives her hand a squeeze. "You're welcome."

A few minutes go by, music from the radio drifting through the car.

"Hey, Chuck?"

"Yeah?"

"What do you think about Howie?"

He's silent for a moment before stammering, "I don't think I understand the question."

Opening her eyes, Sarah laughs. "I mean for Beatrice."

Chuck glances at her, wide-eyed. "Uh, I'm not sure if I'm the best person to ask about that. Shouldn't you be talking to Beatrice about this?" He ends with a shrug, clearly out of his comfort zone with the conversation.

"Oh, come on," she counters with a grin. "Where's the fun in matchmaking if you let the couple in question know you're matchmaking?"

"Okay, okay," he concedes, "but why don't you think about that at the end of the weekend?"

Sarah leans forward to place a hand on his neck. "I promise," she smiles. "I'm all yours for the next three days." She kisses his cheek before whispering, "For the rest of my life."


End file.
